Torn
by MisplacedHyperQuill
Summary: He stares disbelieving, rubbing his fingertips over his eyes, to catch the new falling tears. These are the first tears Dr. John Watson has shed since the death of Sherlock Holmes.


Two figures sit, one slouched in a well worn armchair, the other at the former's feet, head leant against the arm of the chair. Both watched silently, sipping their drinks- one with a beer, the other cradling an untouched mug of lukewarm coffee, as orange flames dance around in the fireplace.

Birds sing outside, the sun warming them as it glows softly in the aftershocks of a thunderstorm.

The one with the beer takes his last swig before crumpling the now useless aluminium and tossing it as far as the fist can throw. The figure's partner sighs softly, getting up to pick up the rubbish and place it in its proper place in the bin.

The man in the chair never moves as his companion flits around in silence, straightening his abode and washing away the used utensils from their previous meal. He hears water rushing from the sink in the kitchen, but still makes no move to help.

Electric lights flicker on overhead. Light outside begins to dim as the sun makes its way towards the horizon.

This was the routine both have become accustomed to for at least six long months.

The woman reenters the room, a small satchel slung on her shoulder, her small phone in hand. Her phone has changed, he noticed a while back, to a small cheap device. But he still couldn't be bothered to even question why.

"Same time tomorrow." The woman speaks, the first words spoken in that apartment today. The only, repeated words spoken in the apartment as of exactly six months ago.

She bends down to peck his weathered forehead, dark hair tickling his cheek as she pulls away.

The door shuts softly and locks from the outside with a click.

The man runs his hand over his unshaven, rough and wrinkled face. He grasps for his cane, before heaving himself up to a standing position. He limps into the kitchen and yanks open the fridge door.

Bloody woman had emptied out his alcohol.

He slams it shut with a feral growl and spews curses at the only person who would still visit him, the only person who still cared for him.

The only person who didn't see him as the rest of the world does:

The man who befriended the psychopath.

The man who _grieves_ the psychopath.

The man who believes in Sherlock Holmes- suicidal psychopath.

He stumbles to his room, muttering choice words, as his intoxicated mind doesn't allow him to move past obstacles as fast as he should. He stops at the window to massage a bruised hip.

Night is taking over the day now, and the sun is disappearing behind a white blanket of clouds in the horizon. The air is calm and painfully still.

He can't help but remember just how bright an sunny, a miracle in London, it was _that_ day. One couldn't associate such a nice day with having to witness the suicide of you best friend.

"Shut _up_." He mutters to himself, holding his head in his hands, trying to get the image of the beautiful man out of his head. But he is no Sherlock Holmes- he is incapable of deleting what he had for breakfast, let alone the greatest man anyone could ever have the privilege to meet.

John Watson he doesn't realise he is crying until he runs his hands down his face; only to pull them away in surprise when he feels wetness underneath. He stares disbelieving, rubbing his fingertips over his eyes, to catch the new falling tears.

These are the first tears Dr. John Watson has shed since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Maybe it was the shock of his actions, or just his body telling him that it was time to give up, but John collapses; his body crumples to the floor as he reaches to hug his knees to his chest.

"How _could_ you?" he screams to no one, his voice hoarse and broken from no practice. His body racks with heaving sobs as the man looses control and allows his emotions to control him.

"You _bastard_!" he yells "You selfish, ungrateful, brilliant, _bastard_ of a man!" He continues yelling, letting Sherlock know (eventhough he knows that dead men don't listen) of his anger, hatred, grief and _love _for the man.

The sun finally dips below the horizon and the sky greets the pale face of the moon with a cold, dark blanket.

Throat sore and hoarse from yelling, John coughs painfully, before rolling himself (with effort) onto his knees. The tears have stopped flowing, finally, but have left glinting, dry ruts on the wrinkled planes of his face. He wipes away the salty taste from his mouth with the back of his hand and blinks his red eyes.

Falling back to lean against the wall under the window as he sits, John stares at the desk he used to work on. His laptop still rests there, but now untouched. There wasn't anything to type about, and he sure as _hell_ wasn't going to even glance at the condolence letters, conspiracy theories and hate mail.

Pale blue, bloodshot eyes flit to the mantle piece, where a worn human skull rests. John refused to touch it- refused to touch anything of Sherlock's. It took all his willpower and strength to move the violin to his old flatmate's bed.

"How could you?" he asks tiredly, one more time. He turns his head up and glances to the ceiling before shutting his eyes and embracing darkness.

"How could you leave me?"

John allows his body to go limp, one hand resting on an upraised knee, another leg straightened and his free hand falling limply on his side. Sleep welcomes him with warm, kind arms. This is how Molly Hooper will find him the next afternoon, when she visits him as always (mainly to be sure he doesn't do anything brash. She couldn't bear to loose another friend- and besides, she has a promise to keep), a serene half smiled etched on his face.

He always looked better when he was in the world of dreams. She figured they had the same ones, of the same man.

…

…

"How is he doing?"

"Not well, I don't think he can take much more any longer, and there is so much anyone can do." An answer crackled through. Reception here was bad, and they were lucky if they had the chance to talk more than once a fortnight nowadays.

"There isn't anything I can do."

"Yes there is. You can come home"

"Need I remind you, _again_, why I can't?" the man answered angrily. He looked into the dusty mirror supplied to his room by the motel and adjusted his Yankees cap over his recently blonde hair.

"We all know why you can't. What I am saying is that I can get you home. You can be in hiding, and other's can sort out the other, for lack of a better word, _problems_."

"For the last time, John doesn't _need_ me. Molly will be there to help him through whatever sentimental problems he has over me. If you want me to come home, dear brother, you may as well think of a better reason."

"It is called _grief_, Sherlock- and need I remind you that you inquired his wellbeing before I could even mention his name?" Sherlock growled into his cheap Nokia in answer, and was greeted with a laugh.

"I take it that you realise how much _you_ need _him_ as well, Sherlock."

"I have never rejected that information." Sherlock retorted. He heard a sigh on the other end of the line.

"I am not forcing you home, Sherlock- but you and I both know that at this point it is the better choice. You have come far with tearing down Moriarty's Web, and I am sure you miss your friends as much as they miss you. Besides, Mummy's will not let off until you set foot at your apartment, safe and sound." Sherlock chuckled at the last comment.

"We shall see, Mycroft" the detective paused before continuing "I want to see how bad it is" he said quietly.

"Sherlock are you-"

"Just show me Mycroft. _Please_." The pause on the other end was long. Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft contemplating if his plea was genuine or not. He sat at his laptop, switching it on. He heard rustling in the background at the other end of the line.

"I've just sent it" Mycroft said, the reception worse than ever. There was no point in continuing his conversation. He muttered his thanks to his brother and hung up.

The three minute download of the application felt years longer than it should have. Did he really miss him that much?

Apparently so.

The video played. Sherlock calculated the time differences- this was an ongoing video. He watched Molly Hooper pecking John, saying she would be back, before leaving the apartment. He smiled. Loyal Molly- always keeping her promises.

Sherlock sat, watching his friend collapse, heard the grieving doctor yelling profanities at him, all the while with a stock still body and expressionless face.

Oh John, he thought, I will never deserve you. And you never will deserve me.

His eyes flicked back to the screen as he heard his best friend mutter his last words before sleep overtook him.

_How could you leave me?_

It was almost silent; Sherlock barely heard anything, but he did, and the man with no heart _felt_ for the forlon man who was now snoring quietly, his earlier excursions exhausting his body into what Sherlock could see was much- needed sleep.

Something tugged at his chest from the inside. It was psychological, obviously, but it hurt. He couldn't stop his hand from clutching at the fabric of his T-shirt as he winced slightly.

He also couldn't stop himself as he retched onto the floor next to him.

They were merely dry-heaves; after all, he never ate on a case. He sat back up and slouched forward, resting his head in his hands, watching the rising and falling of the chest belonging to the only man who still fought for him.

He would never understand why they were so loyal to him. John, Molly, Mycroft. He'd even heard that Lestrade had been desk-ridden for fighting for Sherlock. The tall, blonde man shrugged on his varsity jacket and dangled a lit cigarette from the tip of is mouth as he stood at walked to the door. A chime sounded from his pocket.

Unlocking the phone, he checked his messages.

**Text your current details. I will send for transport. And do call your friend. Updates from myself don't seem to be enough- you have to keep your promises if you want others to keep theirs. Make the right choice. –M**

A smirk formed on Sherlock's lips, the first in months. Molly pestering her brother was a funny thought. His smile faltered at the thought of the mousy pathologist; he'd meant to call her, but just couldn't. He had to finish his mission. Solve the case. Crack the code, whatever.

He held the phone in his palm a while longer, his finger lingering on the text icon, before sighing and silencing it. It was dropped into his pocket as his free hand grabbed at his backpack.

As he reached for the door handle, faces swum into view. Mrs. Hudson sobbing at his funeral; his brother with his stoic face; Molly, gaunt and exhaustion written on her features due to worry over Sherlock; John, curled in that fetal position, crying out for his best friend.

It would be the end of time before Sherlock admitted this to anyone, but the same reason united his obsession over completing his mission and his blatant refusal to go home.

Some would say revenge, because that's what selfish people do.

Sherlock is a selfish man, but his reason was anything but.

He did it for his friends, his family, the peopled who still believed in him.

Sherlock yanked open the door and stepped out, slipping the handgun out of his bag and into his pocket- he didn't need a repeat of last night. He strode out the motel, with a purpose, one he would make sure to complete.

He did it, because he cared.

**Hello everyone! I am truly, very, so, so sorry I haven't updated in forever, especially to the readers of my other story, The Snapping Point. I've just been tremendously busy with school and life; and, well, writer's block is a disease only cured by time and/or inspiration. And up 'til now, I haven't gotten even an ounce of either. I am working on the next chapter of TSP, I swear, but a whole set of random plot bunnies have been swarming my mind.**

**I hope you liked this little one-shot. Review and tell me what you think?**

**Thanks guys :D**

**-Ash :)**


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